He covered her with stones from around the temple’s centerpiece, guaranteeing that no scavenger would have an easy time with what remained. Golgren had removed what other meat he could from the ji-baraki before he dropped it down to where the ancient refuse lay in a scattered pile. Finally, clutching his dagger, the youth leaned against the inner wall and dared to sleep.
Four days later, he reached the village of his father’s cousin.
As the memories faded, Golgren turned the dagger over and inspected it in his room. It had become stained with the blood of many enemies over the years, but since he had taken his present name, it had waited for only one more use. With the Solamnic’s arrival, that use seemed almost imminent.
“Do not sleep deep, my little one,” the grand lord murmured. “Your time is coming.”
He touched the drawer, which slid away, vanishing into the wall again. Then, with a humorless grin, he secreted the dagger within his garments where the lone hand could easily reach it.
His thoughts drifted back to that crevasse long ago. Golgren’s eyes narrowed. “No, do not sleep deep.”
Ji-baraki were determined feeders, seeking morsels long past when other predators or scavengers gave up. They had an acute sense of smell that few beasts in all of Krynn could match.
Some of those that had attacked the knights still foraged among the vast array of bones at the battle site, on occasion finding something worth squabbling over. A few tiny lizards and insects that had made temporary homes among the carnage fled as the larger, more predatory ji-baraki neared their locations.
Then something in the moonless night sky caused the ferocious reptiles to look up. Several of the ji-baraki hissed. One of the smaller ones suddenly turned and fled from the scene. That caused a mass exodus by the rest. The ji-baraki kicked up bones and dust as they rushed away, and one even accidentally uncovered a choice bit of bone and gristle, but the morsel was ignored, so frantic were the reptiles to abandon the scene.
And as the last of the ji-baraki vanished from the battle site, countless winged forms descended among the dead. Landing, they took up positions all around the area, waiting.
A flicker of silver light materialized in their center …
XI
Safrag smelled Morgada’s presence long before the Titaness materialized. Dauroth’s apprentice tightly rolled together the scroll through which he had been searching. Morgada had a scent that both enticed and disturbed, for it always carried blood, fresh blood. None of the males bore such a scent.
“Dear Safrag,” she sang. “Is there something that you do not wish me to see?”
“The secrets of the master are not for you, Morgada,” he returned coolly.
“Perhaps not now … ” the raven-haired temptress cooed.
Her words were fair warning. She should have never existed, but Dauroth had not only forgiven that error, but showed some fascination in the possibilities presented by her existence. Whether or not those possibilities held any interest to Morgada was another question, but she used the potential of them to keep herself in the master’s excellent favor.
Safrag sat in one of Dauroth’s private libraries, a round chamber whose walls were lined with silver bookshelves set into the stone. There was no artistic reason for the ornate shelves; the fact that they were silver had more to do with their ability to keep the inherent magic within many of the scrolls and tomes sealed inside. Magic, no matter what its origins, had a tendency to leak out and cause havoc. As it was, the library was already saturated with ancient power, and thus, even admittance to the library was reserved for those who had proven their ability to walk carefully without disturbing the shelves.
Morgada had never been seen at the library as far as Safrag knew.
“You have permission to be here?” he asked, rising from the wide, rectangular table-also silver, due to the same concerns. Silver, in fact, lined the walls themselves.
Silver was also the color of the light currently illuminating the chamber too, although that was by Safrag’s choice. The glowing sphere always hung two feet above his head and thus, as he stood, it rose higher to keep the same distance.
“Do I need permission? I am so sorry, Safrag. I wasn’t aware that I did.”
A lie but one it would do no good for the apprentice to report. Dauroth was curious about the level of the Titaness’s magical skills and would probably encourage her presence there if the matter were brought to him; that was not what Safrag desired.
He replaced the scroll on the shelf then turned back to Morgada. “I am leaving. You will, therefore, leave too … unless there is something else you wish here?”
Her eyes studied the contents of the shelves with clear interest-no, Safrag thought, avarice. “There is so much here I wish, dear Safrag, so very much.” She strode closer. “Is there anything you might suggest of special interest to me?”
His eyes met hers. “One thing, perhaps,” he murmured, suddenly guiding her along with him. “You have only heard of it, but I think Dauroth would want you to know more about it now.”
Her voice grew throaty with excitement. “What is it? What?”
The apprentice led her to one particular shelf. Safrag passed one hand over a single red stone inlaid in the center of the middle shelf.
The gem flared and the entire shelf rippled as if suddenly turned to water.
“Falstoch,” whispered Safrag. “Come out, Falstoch. In Dauroth’s name, I so command you.”
And from within the liquefying shelf there arose a deep, monstrous moan, as if something in the throes of horrible agony had just been stirred to life. For once, Morgada balked, losing some of her confidence, noticeable to Safrag by the way she pressed back against his arm, an arm supposedly protective but also keeping the Titaness from retreating any farther.
“Coooommmmmmeeee … ” a voice managed to croak, sounding as though it came from someone drowning in mud. The sound was made worse by the fact that the word was spoken in the Titan tongue, albeit in such a crude manner that both spellcasters flinched. A stench like that of rotting flesh permeated the chamber. Morgada covered her nose, but Safrag merely steeled himself.
A sloshing sound touched their ears. It grew louder, closer, seeming to presage something huge and terrible.
“Safrag … this is Falstoch approaching?” asked Morgada. “From where?”
“From a place created by the master, to house each of the Abominations.” Safrag said no more, waiting for the one he had invited to show himself, to make himself known.
Through the rippling, a murky outline began to emerge. At times, the shape appeared to have some form akin to an ogre or Titan, but it constantly seemed to melt and reconfigure differently.
Then … then through the bookcase thrust a hand or rather, a mockery of one. Five fingers-more than could be counted on either one of Donnag’s hands-grasped for anything within reach. They were thick, and the skin bubbled. The flesh dripped on the floor, where it sizzled. Two of the fingers shrank into the hand, just as two others sprouted elsewhere.
Safrag was reminded of a thing made out of hot wax. It was the best description he could come up with in his own mind. Yet he knew it was too simple a comparison and much too kind a one.
“Ssssaaafffrrraaaggg … Daaauurrrroth ffffff-forgivessss?”
“You should know better than that, Falstoch.”
The thing let loose with another baleful moan. Morgada gasped as the hulking shadow-still going through a constant and unsettling metamorphosis-prepared to emerge into the light. The prospect proved to be too much for the apprentice’s companion.